She cries
at the Nutcracker
when the snow
falls.
Sitting next
to her
I shift
every part
of me
dry
waiting for the canons,
my finger on the musket
trigger, anticipating
how she’ll swoon
dodging my bullets,
how she’ll drive
us home, explain,
patiently, the plot,
console me; how I’ll
envy the chunk
of cheese she’ll set out
for that giant rat.
